


Instead of You

by iblieveinu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26509690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iblieveinu/pseuds/iblieveinu
Summary: What if John understood Sherlock better than anyone gave him credit for and had a few tricks up his sleeve that not even the British Government knew about! A one-shot of how John saves the day! Reichenback plot twist! BAMF! John.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 217





	Instead of You

**Instead of You**

Just had to write this story. A plot bunny was running around in circles, getting dizzy and I felt I just had to get it out of my head before it made me dizzy too. Here's the result and I hope you like it! Read and Review people!

* * *

John Hamish Watson was a simple man with simple needs and simple desires that were simple enough to fulfill. A contradiction of sorts, he was both a soldier and a doctor, or rather, a Captain and a Doctor, but never felt the need to distinguish between the two parts of himself. He had wanted to help people and saving lives was a part of it and so he trained as a doctor. But as it turned out, a surgeon's steady hand could also be used to hold and shoot a weapon, any weapon. So the RAMC was followed by training at Sandhurst and the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers during which he was also asked to join the SRR. They had all been simple enough decisions to make. And not once had he ever had any regrets about them.

That one shot changed matters though. The blood loss and infection and those long hours staring at the plain white walls of the hospital room after the grueling surgery had a way of changing a man's perspective. Especially when you were the resident patient and not the doctor. Looking up looked different from looking down. White ceiling versus white sheet. One had a purpose, while the other …

Infinitely blank and unhelpfully unending.

Maybe if he'd shot the ceiling it would have made things more even.

But then, life was full of maybes now. There was always something to look back upon and wish it could have been done better. Differently somehow. Nothing was simple anymore. Wishes, needs, desires, none of it. Not even talking was simple now. Or going out of his one room bed-sit. Or meeting people other than his friends from the army. Those were connections he chose to keep, a part of his old life.

'Invalided home' was all but a death knell. And what that situation didn't do, his therapist did. He was a trained army doctor, for God'd sake! He knew what trauma did to a man and on his better days was glad to have got out with only a psychosomatic limp and bouts of PTSD when so many of his friends had suffered from worse. She wasn't helping him by asking him to talk about his experiences. Every time he tried, his night terrors had been worse than ever. And he doubted anyone would want to read about the horrors of war on a blog. The war had happened to him after all; in fact he'd chosen it. But not much else ever did. But there was no way he could explain all this to a therapist even if half his life hadn't been classified information. Still, she was someone to meet on a regular basis and that gave him some purpose for about 2 days a week. The rest didn't bear thinking about.

Which is why it was such a shock to him sometimes one year on, that he would often find himself rather purposefully chasing down a knife-wielding or gun-toting criminal on the streets of London, his Browning or Sig tucked down the small of his back or in the deep pockets of his jacket, on rather a regular basis. Or as regular as it got for his eccentric flatmate, one Sherlock Holmes.

The man was like a breath of fresh air in his life, bringing with him the challenges he'd thought he would never find again. But being a part of his life was challenge enough for any normal man. One would have to be bordering on quite insane to even consider running alongside the consulting detective on his nightly tours around London with the threat of death looming in dark corners or dingy alleyways.

John Watson reveled in it.

Now he had plenty to blog about. Talking more about Sherlock than about his own involvement in crime-solving, he poured out his honest, stark admiration for the other man and looked forward eagerly to the responses on his posts. Many of his army friends commented as well, and many a happy evening was spent meeting with the lads in pubs discussing those cases. There was a lot of ribbing about 'good old T.C.' living with a male flatmate, but there was so much more going on under that half-joking exchange. Sherlock had his Homeless Network, and John had his own quietly cultivated circle of ex-army vets. Homeless or otherwise he gave his friends a renewed sense of purpose, sometimes helping him with information on the cases and always with keeping a watch on Sherlock when he couldn't.

Because all too soon, when he wasn't looking, Sherlock Holmes had become a Friend, the man he would willingly follow into London's understated battleground, invisible to all others. He was Sherlock's blogger and flatmate and after that first night at Angelo's, he'd never thought about wanting to be anything more. He melted into the background, perfectly content to let his friend be in the limelight and allow his brilliance to shine. But he kept his gun ready and practiced at the range once a week with the other vets.

Sure there was danger and kamikaze cabbies and Chinese smugglers and even James Moriarty. But through it all, John Watson stood quite surely beside Sherlock Holmes, protecting the man, nagging him into eating, and even at times patching up his wounds. He would not give this up for the world.

It was this attitude of John's that first brought him to the attention of the British Government. Government officials he could deal with, but Mycroft Holmes was something else. His was a war of shadows, a dignified brawl in which anything was admissible so long as he could keep his brother and his country safe. The first meeting in the warehouse told John a lot about Sherlock's elder brother and his later investigations into Mycroft's role and position in the government brought up several flags to watch out for. In the end, he was never more thankful that he had a huge support base within the army circuit and had cultivated several more outside of it, as the British Government had a tendency of playing Big Brother even with him.

Of course, John could have shared with Mycroft his amusement with the surveillance procedures that he was of course aware of, but then, that would have been no fun. Besides, they were at least useful for keeping extra sets of eyes and years on Sherlock's whereabouts. And also, both the Holmes brother had an annoying way of keeping him out of the loop of relevant information whenever they felt like it. By having his own extra set of eyes and ears though, there wasn't much that John missed out on. Even from inside Mycroft's office and the Diogenes Club.

This was how he'd found out about those dreadful days when Mycroft sold his brother's life to the devil that was James Moriarty in return for a handful of sand camouflaged as gold dust. And by the time that Mycroft or anybody realised that what information they had won was worthless, the greatest price had already been paid. Sherlock Holmes was a man living on borrowed time.

Or would have been if not for one understated, vastly overlooked, mild-mannered, jumper-clad John Watson. Sometimes it paid to be the wallflower. His eyes and ears could see and hear whispers and secrets that Moriarty and Mycroft both overlooked. Both relied on their sources inside various government agencies and were dismissive of the common people. But the streets hummed with the flow of information and told John all he needed to know to keep his friend and his foolish brother safe.

John called in his friends and contacts, laying out plans and contingencies, knowing from the past encounters with Moriarty that the man would hit Sherlock right in his emotional solar plexus. Sherlock had emotions, of course he did. The man just didn't know how to express them in any social situation that wasn't real. But ask him to act in front of a potential source of information during a case, and you could stand back and watch the man step onto a stage and give the performance of his life. As always, John had the laugh on everyone who knew the genius detective, since he knew his best friend was a deeply emotional man. But he never contradicted or corrected anyone, knowing that Sherlock preferred to keep a public front that was very different from the person he was when alone in their flat with John.

And so it was that when Moriarty began targeting Sherlock after the trial, painting him in the light of a fake and a fraud, John knew that the games would soon come to an end. He remembered The Pool; Moriarty wanted to burn the heart out of Sherlock. It had taken a while, but John knew after the fiasco at Dartmoor that he himself was a part of that heart along with the motherly Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade. Even Mycroft was on that short list, but Moriarty would not target the British Government directly. Defaming Sherlock would do enough damage on its own.

John knew there wasn't much time. Ever since those kids had screamed bloody murder at the sight of his best friend, he'd begun his silent operation against Moriarty. He wasn't T.C. of the SRR for nothing. He'd recognized Sebastian Moran from The Pool when the man had put the Semtex jacket on him. He knew who and what to look for. He started small, rooting out the lower level thugs and their known associates and either eliminating them or buying them off, quietly turning Moriarty's cheap, dispensable labor against him, replacing them with his own people.

Working as quickly as he dared, John pulled together all his resources on this one goal, somehow managing at the same time, to keep an eye out for Sherlock and his plans. The recording devices placed in the morgue and lab at St. Bart's hit pay dirt when he heard Sherlock's plans with Molly for his impending fake death.

Over John's dead body!

Well, he hoped not. But if it came to that …

Right. Crossing that bridge when – if – it comes.

He took to keeping a closer eye on Sherlock from then on, disregarding all rules of personal space as much as the detective. Not that they had many of those left anyway. In those last days in the run up to the fake death that both of them were engineering individually, John changed their interactions irreversibly.

He paid greater attention to Sherlock, attending to his needs before the detective even voiced them. He plied the man with tea and food regularly, whether or not he ate, a quiet presence in the flat and at the detective's elbow at crime scenes. When Sherlock was lounging on the couch, reading or thinking, John would walk over, raise those slim ankles and slide himself under them, casually picking up his own book or newspaper as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. The first few times, Sherlock had almost burnt him to a crisp, grey eyes boring into his the side of his head with glaring intensity. But after a few weeks, he barely even noticed.

The first time John massaged his head during a particularly debilitating headache, Sherlock had almost jumped right off the couch when the smaller man maneuvered the curly head into his lap. But a thorough and relaxing massage later, Sherlock had dozed off quite comfortably minus a headache. He found that he quite like his doctor carding his hand through his hair and John was amused when Sherlock started falling bonelessly into his lap, wordlessly asking for it again and again.

John knew what he was doing and only hoped everything would turn out right in the end. Which brought them to today.

He had succeeded.

Plain old John Watson had outmaneuvered both Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. Pity he couldn't dance a jig when they were on the run from the law.

His informants in Moriarty's ranks passed on the Consulting Criminal's plans for Sherlock and John on the final day. The two assassins left in the vicinity of Baker Street were quietly taken down by his friends. When John got a planned fake call from Molly Hooper about Mrs. Hudson being shot, Sherlock's reaction told him all he had to know. For the man to dismiss the motherly old lady so coldly went against his previous actions against the last man who had threatened their landlady. Which meant that Sherlock had planned to meet Moriarty today and wanted John out of the way.

John hesitated.

To speak now could put all their plans in danger. He knew what Sherlock intended to do; he had listened carefully while the stupid genius discussed his fake death with Mycroft and Molly. He had planned his own strategies around that information, hoping that Sherlock would never have to make that jump at all.

He hesitated a moment too long. Sherlock looked at him when he didn't immediately rush away to Baker Street. The words came unbidden to his lips.

"Don't do it."

Sherlock's eyes widened, shock clear in his eyes and the taut lines of his body as grey looked into blue. "How?" he stammered.

"You should never have tried to keep your heart locked away from me."

"John …"

SRR Commander John 'T.C.' Watson pressed a number on speed dial and activated the loudspeaker, keeping his eyes locked on his friends'. It was picked up on the first ring.

"Do you have visual?"

"Affirmative, Commander."

"Patch in."

"Confirmed."

"Positions?"

"Bart's roof-top, opposite Bart's 3 o' clock, opposite home base and DI office."

"Visual on all four confirmed?"

"Positive I.D. and visual locked."

"Dummy run is go."

"Affirmative Commander. All stations, Dummy run is go. Repeat, Dummy run is go."

Sherlock was trembling now, eyes still locked on his flatmate. His voice was choked. "John?"

John beckoned Sherlock to the nearest window and gestured for him to look out from behind the blinds. A man ran out from the front doors of St. Bart's, dressed in exactly the same clothes as the doctor, with the same blond hair and gait. John watched Sherlock watch John's double frantically hail a cab and go away in the direction of 221B Baker Street. No doubt everyone watching would have seen exactly the same thing he had just witnessed.

John Watson had run out of St. Bart's and gone away to Baker Street leaving Sherlock Holmes alone in the hospital.

Sherlock turned to John, expression glazed, for once speechless with confusion though his eyes threw questions at his flatmate and friend. A voice came through John's phone. "Target has just been informed."

"All units hold position until advised."

"Roger that."

John gestured to the phone still in Sherlock's hand. "Send that message."

"What?"

"The message to Moriarty. Send it. Now."

The hard tone shook the detective out of his stupor and he stepped into John's personal space "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't tell me either."

"How did you keep any of this a secret from me?"

"It wasn't difficult." John shrugged. "Now send that message. We don't want Moriarty to get suspicious."

The name was the trigger, and seeing the logic in the argument, Sherlock sent the text inviting Moriarty to St. Bart's roof-top. When he looked up again, John had shed his jacket and jumper leaving only a black shirt that hugged his body. A pair of Browning L9A1s sat on his hips, the holsters designed to rest against the small of his back. Sherlock watched as John went through the final checks on both guns, before loading them and packing them out of sight behind his back.

Sherlock looked at John. Looked at him carefully for the first time in many weeks since he had first realised what 'Final Solution' Moriarty was aiming for. John looked different. The body language was slightly familiar, having seen the Captain at times on crime scenes when arguments got too heated between him and the police. But this was a harder, tougher version. This was a man who gave commands and expected them to be followed to the letter, no questions asked. The man on the phone had called him 'Commander'. That meant John had lead Black Ops missions at some point during his time in Afghanistan and was still in touch with his teams. His teams were the ones out there waiting for further orders. He wondered if Mycroft knew about John's status.

The thin line of his lips and the frown on his brow meant he was angry and worried. Angry because Sherlock hadn't told him about his plans, which Sherlock could now see that John obviously knew about. But Sherlock had tried to keep John out of everything altogether. The detective shuddered at the thought of the obvious outcome of his meeting with the master criminal. Had everything gone according to Sherlock's plans, John would have been made to watch his flatmate jump off the roof of the hospital to his death. Fake or not, the psychological trauma would have been extreme for a man who had PTSD. Could he really have done that to his only friend? Why hadn't he thought about this before?

Sherlock shook his head; there would be time for introspection later. Right now, he focused on John. John who had somehow pulled a rather large rabbit out of a non-existent hat and given them all a chance that resulted in minimal casualties. But he knew that John was worried about how this would turn out.

"Shall I tell Mycroft about the change in plans?"

"Better not, until everything is in place."

The phone came to life again, "Dummy en route ETA 10 minutes."

John looked at his watch and frowned. "Engage traffic control. Give us 10 more minutes"

"Right Cap."

John looked at Sherlock. "You need to go. Follow your plan to the letter. I know how it goes. But it won't end the way you were going to do it."

"When does it change?"

"You'll know. Just remember to leave the roof door open."

Sherlock nodded and moved towards John, looking down at him with open curiosity and amazement. He leaned down and rested his forehead against John's. His friend exhaled softly and he could feel some of the tension leaving his body. John reached up to run a strong, sure hand through Sherlock's hair, tugging it lightly as he spoke, "Go, Sherlock. Let's finish this."

The detective nodded, stepped back and turned away, stalking out of the lab and taking the fastest way up to the roof, knowing that John would soon be joining him. His mind turned to the plan he had made months ago. The objective had been to keep the criminal mastermind busy talking for as long as possible and learn more about Moriarty's plans. They knew that Moriarty wanted Sherlock to die to finish the fairy tale. The fraud detective jumping to his death after being exposed for being a fake. Moriarty had torn him down and nothing would satisfy the criminal now except the detective's death.

And now John, dear, wonderful, amazing John, had found a way to keep all of that from happening. As he approached the door to the roof, the final barrier between him and the inevitable end, he wondered how long John had been preparing for this.

Well, he would know soon enough. For now he just had to play the biggest game of his life and trust John. He reached out and turned the handle, pushing the door out and open, and strode out to meet his mortal enemy. Consulting Criminal, James Moriarty.

Meanwhile, back in the lab, John waited for confirmation of Sherlock's meeting with Moriarty. The cab carrying his doppelganger had to arrive at the hospital no longer than 10 minutes after the two geniuses met. That would give everybody enough time to do what they had to do. He made a call.

"Now would be the time to attack the hen house."

"Understood," came his reply and he cancelled the call, knowing that at that precise moment, hundreds of Moriarty supporters would be apprehended and taken in for questioning for various illegal activities, based on inside information provided by his men. A hard smile slashed across his face at the memory of Mycroft's goldfish expression when he revealed his true identity to the British Government. The man had been quite satisfyingly speechless for many minutes while trying to compute the information John had revealed to after calling him out on the idiotic plan the Holmes brothers had hatched. At least Mycroft had listened to him with more respect than usual. John supposed he could get used to it.

His phone rang. "Dummy ETA 2 minutes."

John moved out and made his way to the roof. "All units to stations. Heads up gentlemen. Snipers in play in T minus 1 minute."

"Copy. Snipers in position."

"Wait for my mark."

"Roger that, Commander."

John jogged up the flights of stairs, arriving at the door to the roof and peering around it. He wanted to ensure he wasn't seen by either of the two geniuses. Sherlock would see him and be able to cover it up, but Moriarty had been able to see through Sherlock's expressions before and John didn't want to take a risk. Not at this point.

But from the tableau before him, he'd timed it perfectly. Moriarty seemed to be gloating over the threat he had arranged over three of Sherlock's friends, his attention fully on the impending demise of the world's only Consulting Detective. He seemed to be full of a manic energy, sure of the outcome, and eager for the end. Moriarty and John watched Sherlock climb onto the parapet.

John set his phone on silent and sent off a bulk message even as he eased around the door and took aim.

_"MARK."_

Four shots were fired that day. For snipers hit their marks. Four enemies fell.

Sherlock heard the exhale of air behind him and spun to see Moriarty holding a hand to his throat, blood pouring over his fingers from a round bullet hole. He relished the look of surprise on his face and hopped down from the edge. A wild smile twisted his lips as he leaned in to whisper, "Never underestimate John Watson."

As Moriarty crumpled to the ground, John came closer, gun still trained in his left hand as he spoke into the phone in his right. "Sit. report. Stat."

"Targets down, Commander. Repeat, all targets down."

"Retreat to HQ for debrief and relief. Take the rest of the day off. Reports on my desk tomorrow. Thank you gentlemen. Pleasure working with you."

"Pleasure was ours', Commander. Alpha Team moving out."

John cancelled the call and made another. "The field is yours for the picking."

Sherlock started at the voice that answered, "Thank you John. Very neatly done."

"Did you want them wrapped up as well?"

"Why bother? It would just be torn off again after all. Give my brother my best, won't you? Good day."

"Of course, Mycroft. Bye."

Cancelling that call as well, John pushed his phone into his pocket and looked down at the corpse of the consulting criminal. "Well, that was satisfying."

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Thank you."

John looked up and smiled brightly at his friend, "You're welcome."

The detective worried his lower lip for a while and then blurted, "I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Sherlock. I don't like it, but I sort of understand why you made such a stupid plan. But no harm done. Moriarty's snipers are dead, his criminal empire is being torn apart as we speak and everyone is safe. Now all that's left to do is have a nice long warm bath followed by curry and naan takeout at home." John moved away from the corpse as Mycroft's men poured out of the door and looked at the unnaturally still detective, "You coming?"

"I … yes."

John reached across and took Sherlock's slim hand in his own broad one and tugged, "Come on then, love. Lets go home."

A brilliant smile swept across the younger man's face, a happy light in his eyes as he looked at the man who had stood by him since the first day they had crossed paths. John had killed a man for him then and had killed again today and innumerable times in between when the occasion demanded it. John had been saving his life time and time again over the past two years, keeping him safe, mind, body and soul. And he knew that what they were would never change but only get better with what they had now become. He would love this man with every part of his soul and knew he would be cherished in the same way. The detective threaded his fingers through his bloggers' and stepped closer to place a soft, sweet kiss on his lips. "Home."


End file.
